


The Mathematics of Defeat

by randomalia (spilinski)



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 11:17:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4219701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spilinski/pseuds/randomalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So far out from the coast there are no landmarks to be had, and to Côtard it feels vaguely like dreaming. There is only the rail to grip, only floating boards beneath his boots, and were the ship to turn, he would not know in which direction lay home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mathematics of Defeat

**Author's Note:**

> Major Cotard, set during Loyalty.

For the first thirty-some years of his life, André Côtard had a brother. They had grown up together on the sweet coast of Brest, racing from wood to waves, always trying to best one another. The rocks along the shoreline were full of pools: silent seagrasses and jagged edges, and the sun on the water pricked their eyes. André preferred the route back, when they would hide from one another in the trees and shake the sand from their boots, the shade falling heavily on their hot necks.

As a young man André had followed his brother into books and muskets and oaths to the King, bristling with pride and certainty. And then his brother had been taken to the guillotine and André had fled, crossing the Channel with gut-sinking determination and stale blood in his hair.

*

In England, the towns are just as bleak and filthy as he had expected. Sometimes he sees other scarlet coats, a flare of dye in the drapers, red mixing with dirt on the stones beside the butchery, but none match the colour he wears. The English move around him, don't appear to realise the difference.

*

Captain Hornblower is tall, dark, fluent in French. Early in the voyage he invites Côtard to join him in a meal, and softly undercuts all of Côtard's attempts to show the greater experience he clearly possesses, pushing food towards him in the same moment as explaining that, aboard ship, the captain's word is law.

The wretched underside of Côtard's old affection comes rushing back to him; he feels young and outstripped, second instead of first.

"This food is terrible," he replies at last, grasping his wine. "I would not give it to a prisoner."

Hornblower maintains a neutral expression, though he has been distinterestedly dragging his fork across his own meal, making furrows without seeds.

Seated at Côtard's left, Bush leans forward to fill his plate. When he feels Côtard's gaze upon him Bush lifts his chin slightly, eyelids like stone, expectant and quelling in the same measure.

*

Côtard is not new to travelling upon the sea, yet he is not so easy at it as he would like. Men like Bush and Hornblower traverse the deck as though they are on flat, open plains, even when the weather grows violent and the ship bucks in response, a horse throwing its head and digging down in its hooves.

It is perhaps late afternoon, but the sky has looked bruised and heavy since the night lifted, and so it is difficult to be certain. So far there has not been rain but the wind is sharp, burning in the nostrils and throat. Côtard's stomach pitches along with the ship and he ignores it in favour of watching their progress, standing at the side and turning his head whenever slick spray is cast up at him. Seamen are hurrying about the place looking inefficient and disorderly; Hornblower seems to be searching for something in the sails, or perhaps the clouds. Bush is the major, bellowing orders in yet another language, the lash that drives the men to their work.

So far out from the coast there are no landmarks to be had, and to Côtard it feels vaguely like dreaming. There is only the rail to grip, only floating boards beneath his boots, and were the ship to turn, he would not know in which direction lay home.

"Are we far from the rendezvous point, Captain?" he asks at last, stepping away and around a portly officer with a terrible wig. "I hope this inclement weather will not delay us," he goes on. "I must be there to greet my contact at precisely the hour specified." It is impossible to tell how seriously Hornblower is taking this mission. Of course, no man could know the importance of Côtard's meeting with the Duke -- now, after so long, the open danger.

"I believe we shall indeed arrive at the correct time, Major Côtard," Hornblower replies. A young officer places a glass into his hand, and he moves to the side to gaze out over the water.

"I am pleased to hear it," Côtard responds, and if it is more challenge than acceptance, Hornblower does not seem to notice.

The following morning they meet the _Loire_ instead of the Duke. Côtard listens to the rolling drums, straightens his back with every measure of nobility he holds.

*

"I am merely pointing out, Bush, that these accomodations are insufficient for an officer such as myself."

"I believe the Captain gave you leave to sleep on deck, Major, if that is more to your taste."

Côtard huffs; can't restrain it and doesn't wish to. Bush has been impertinent since he stepped on board this vessel. Perhaps he should think it ridiculous instead of insulting: lying in such conditions trading barbs with a common Englishman, each of them behind a once-white sheet hung up to separate the room. But everything is irritation. If his peers could see him now, reduced to such a state! Like glorious France he has lowered himself, divested by false promises. He tells Bush so.

"You needed a ship to take you," Bush responds blandly. "And she did. The Captain followed his orders."

Côtard frowns, wanting to make some remark about sailors and the way they speak of things, objects, like they are women, or even to point out that Hornblower's duty should involve knowing how to treat an important passenger.

"I do not expect you to understand, Bush," he says instead.

"Then perhaps it's better you don't tell me, Major."

"You wish me to cease speaking for the rest of this pointless voyage?" Côtard snaps back, and presses his lips together hard when there is a distinct lack of reply.

*

It does not escape his understanding that to return to the Duke's lands he must dress as a peasant. Bush sees to it that clothing is brought to him; the air is cold against his chest without coat, shirt, neckcloth to cover it. He unwraps his queue himself, growing frustrated at the unaccustomed clumsiness of his own hands, the ungovernable black lengths of the tie.

Hornblower looks equally as unkempt as they settle into the boat, though his enthusiasm, his focus -- these negate the effect of the wide fisherman's hat, the ragged cloth of his breeches.

On the shore, everything is as it was.

*

The rain greets them on the way back to Portsmouth; the buttery seas turn to mud and Côtard finds himself thinking of a long-passed Spring when his commandant had pushed the men on to the village through wet, churned soil that had dried thick on his boots. He remembers, too, not having time to hand them off for cleaning before falling asleep with exhaustion, a weariness that overwhelmed both habit and caution.

Above him now, on the deck, the men are on watch. Once or twice he thinks he catches the sound of their voices raised against the wind, but it could be the old groaning of the ship itself. All sounds bleed into the thunder when it cracks overhead, even Côtard's breathing.

The younger officers lit lanterns when night fell, flooding the wardroom with brightness, but Côtard retired early to his berth as usual and is content to lie in his horrid canvas in the dark, waiting and thinking. The only fear he holds now is failing to bring their vital information to the Admiral, but it is enough to keep him from sleep, the thought of Bonaparte's army encamped on the Duke's land nestling into his skin like a thorn. Drowning is not much of an end, but it would be in the service of his country, and that is its own balm. He can admit he has nothing else.

Time passes before the door creaks open. In the spilling light Côtard watches Bush enter, water dripping from his greatcoat and hat, the sheen of it on his jaw. The door closes again, and from beyond the black curtain Côtard can hear him, breathing low, stripping the coat from his shoulders.

*

It is dim and still when he opens his eyes. Bush is already moving around, and not particularly quiet, though Côtard is accustomed to rising at uncertain hours and does not feel troubled. He draws a hand across his face, stretches as best he can under the blanket.

"The _Hotspur_ has weathered the storm well?" he asks in what must be early morning.

"Some minor damage."

"Good. I expect we must be not a great distance from Portsmouth."

"I've not read the numbers yet."

Côtard assumes Bush is talking about navigation. He climbs from his cot, goes about the little morning rituals which require no thought. The graze on his cheek prickles hotly under the cold water he brings to his face.

"How long have you been at sea, Bush?" he asks eventually.

"Long enough not to stand around when there's work to be done, Major."

"You cannot have served long with Captain Hornblower. He is too young. Younger than yourself," Côtard continues, lifting his neckcloth over the collar of his shirt and smoothing the thick material.

"We were lieutenants together," Bush says, in the same short tone he has used with every question previous.

"Ah, I see now," Côtard replies easily, and he does. He pulls on his coat carefully, making sure the buttons are straight and clean, and then turns his attention to adjusting and re-tying his sash until it sits neatly.

He raises his head to find Bush standing near the door, looking back at him, face closed with the suggestion of suspicion.

Côtard unfurls his cloak, the gold fastening collapsing against his fingers before he secures it across his throat. Bush does not appear to possess a cloak at all. For an Englishman, even a Naval man, however, he is always sufficiently turned-out. He keeps to a better standard than some of Côtard's own men did, in France. Better than Hornblower, who sometimes appears not to have even brushed his coat.

"Are you waiting to accompany me to breakfast?" Côtard says at last, breaking the silence. "I did not expect such solicitation. Perhaps you have been exposed to the manners of well-bred persons?"

Bush might be clenching his jaw as he affixes his hat. "I'm sure you can find your way, Major," is all he says, and pulls the door shut as he leaves.

*

Bush does not seem to be cowed by anything, especially a superior man and officer. Côtard would like to think this is because Bush does not know well enough to understand his place, but they have been in company long enough, and Côtard is astute enough, to believe otherwise.

* 

In Portsmouth Côtard disembarks along with Hornblower; they are both to report aboard Pellew's ship, the _Tonnant_ , whereafter Hornblower will return to the _Hotspur_ , and Côtard will not. This morning Bush had called upon some crewmen to fetch Côtard's belongings from the hold and take down the curtain from his berth. Côtard had thanked him in French and watched Bush's brow tighten in lack of understanding.

As Côtard and Hornblower go over the side and set off in the boat, the crew seem to keep their eyes on their captain, or else stare towards shore. Since their encounter with the _Loire_ there has been a more open distrust in their eyes than even when Côtard had first joined them; the officers at least have had enough discipline to ignore his presence. It signifies nothing, except perhaps that the captain should flog his crewmen more often.

On board the _Tonnant_ Hornblower shakes his hand in farewell, his face light with what might be sincerity.

 

*


End file.
